


and you drew stars around my scars

by StoriesofmyLife



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series), Karate Kid (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Daniel is damaged, Episode Fix-it, Episode Related, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Johnny just wants to understand, KK3, Kreese returns, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season 2 Episode 2: Back in Black, Whump, and Daniel loses his shit over it, lawrusso
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:33:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27709090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoriesofmyLife/pseuds/StoriesofmyLife
Summary: Daniel’s always been an intense, passionate guy—he always felt things too deeply and too widely and it always felt too big for his body to contain, like he’s always fit to burst with energy and emotion. Mr. Miyagi helped ground him, helped him learn how to focus his energy and channel it into something so it didn’t feel so big and all consuming. Mr. Miyagi kept him tethered, buoyed and ever since his death, Daniel’s felt like he’s been drifting out to sea, barely able to keep his head above water.And right now, he feels like a drowning man at the bottom of an angry ocean with no hope for a rescue in sight.*Or: Kreese returns, Daniel's not okay and Johnny's just trying get to the bottom of it all, man.*Takes place after the end scene of 02:02:Back in Black, if Johnny had gone after Daniel.
Relationships: Amanda LaRusso/Anoush Norouzi, Amanda LaRusso/Daniel LaRusso, Daniel LaRusso & Johnny Lawrence, Daniel LaRusso & Mr. Miyagi, Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence, John Kreese & Johnny Lawrence, Miguel Diaz & Johnny Lawrence, Robby Keene & Daniel LaRusso, Robby Keene & Johnny Lawrence
Comments: 74
Kudos: 225





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! Welcome to my newest LawRusso venture and my first foray into writing Adult Johnny and Daniel. The idea for this story came from a mixture of my own musings and a comment that a reader left on my first ever LawRusso fic when I asked, in the notes, if anyone had any prompt ideas for me or things they'd like to see from me. Someone asked me to write a story about Daniel telling Johnny about the events of KK3 and Johnny comforting him. 
> 
> Well, I couldn't let it go and this baby has been sitting in my drafts for months, waiting for the right moment for me to get it outlined and posted and since I'm coming up on the end of my third installment of my shades of healing 'verse, I figured now is as good of time as any. 
> 
> This work could be potentially triggering, I tried to get it all in the tags, but just in case no one read them, I will warn you: this fic, while not particularly dark, will cover PTSD, Anxiety/Panic attacks and talks of abuse of teenagers by adults. If any of you have seen the third Karate kid, then you'll know what I'm talking about and if you haven't, I encourage you to watch it so you not only understand the story better, but you also gain a better insight to Daniel as a character. 
> 
> This fic is unbeta'd and it's been looked over by me, so if there's any mistakes, I apologize in advance. 
> 
> With that being said, buckle up kids and enjoy the ride :)
> 
> Title is taken shamelessly from cardigan by Taylor Swift off of her folklore album :)

Daniel’s shaking as he walks back to his car, every limb trembling violently as he fights to the keep the panic rising—slowly, overwhelmingly—at bay. It doesn’t help that he can physically _feel_ the weight of Kreese’s cold stare, burning, on the back of his neck as he fishes his keys out of his pocket, unlocking the Audi with quivering fingers. 

He scrambles in and slams the door closed, fumbling to lock it behind him. It takes him three tries to hit the button and when he finally manages to get it, he feels a little better, but not much. 

His chest feels tight, lungs burning as his vision swims and he closes his eyes, resting his forehead against the steering wheel in an attempt to try and ground himself to something solid and real. The cool leather feels good on his overheated skin and he takes a shaky breath, trying to breathe through the knot sitting like an anvil on his chest, but it gets stuck in his throat and he chokes, gasping wildly for the air that just won’t come. His head feels heavy and light at the same time—dizzy from the lack of air but weighted down from the overload of thoughts trying to break through the wall he’s so carefully built over the years. They claw and tear at the foundation, ripping it back layer by layer and he’s helpless to stop it, he can’t focus, can’t fight it’s—his heart pounds like a warm drum and it echoes loudly in his ears, almost drowns out the sound of maniacal laughter, cruel and vicious and a voice, oily and slick, whispering in his ear and suddenly he’s back in the old Cobra Kai dojo, the smell of sweat and cigar smoke, pungent and putrid—

_“If a man can’t breathe, he can’t fight.”_

Pain, burning, throbbing, in his hands. He’s so hot the blood feels cold on his hands, dripping down his knuckles, between his fingers. 

A sweep to his bad leg and he collapses, like a broken marionette, knocking, what little oxygen he’s got left, out of his lungs in a sharp _whoosh_ that makes his bruised and battered ribs protest with a sharp stab of pain that feels like a serrated blade digging into his flesh with a harsh twist.

_“If a man can’t stand, he can’t fight.”_

Laughter, loud and callous, breaks through the slamming of his heart against his aching ribs. Smoke, think and heavy, curls around his nose, suffocating all the oxygen from his lungs. It burns his eyes, makes them water, he can’t see, _he can’t see—_

Hands, harsh and rough, grab him up by the scruff of his neck.

More hands grip the top of his arms, fingertips pressing painfully into the soft skin, capillaries split and burst, a dull ache spreads, there’s going to be bruises tomorrow, how’s he going to hide them, Mr. Miyagi’s going to know, he’s going to know, he’s going to find out—

_“How does it feel, Danny-boy? Have you had enough?”_

In the distance, someone’s shouting, it sounds like his name, but he can’t hear it over the ringing in his ears, the blood dripping steadily to the floor, shattering like glass when it meets the worn mats, _how is that possible, this shouldn’t be possible—_

_“Now who’s the one with the bloody knuckles?”_

A sharp, insistent rap of knuckles against his window makes Daniel nearly jump out of his skin, elbow knocking into the car door with a sharp _thwack._ The pain that blooms as a result helps ground him back into present and he takes a moment to take stock of his surroundings; he’s in his car, in the parking lot of some shitty strip mall in Reseda. The _why_ of his presence takes longer to come to him. He slogs through his muddled, tired brain, but he keeps coming up empty, until another harsh knock pulls Daniel’s attention to the window. 

Even through the dark tint, Daniel can see the angry glint in Johnny’s electric blue eyes, the annoyed downturn of his mouth. 

He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, but he finds himself unlocking the door, reaching for the handle and it’s barely open before Johnny yanks it the rest way, the car lurching with the force of it. 

“What the _hell_ is your problem, LaRusso?” He demands, voice sharp. “You can’t just show up here, all high and mighty and mysterious and start making threats and demands—“

Daniel tries to focus, to summon some righteous indignation at being berated like a child, but Johnny’s voice filters through his ears like he’s underwater, muffled and garbled, like those old Charlie Brown cartoons with the teacher— _wah wah woh wah wah._

He’s also starting to feel a little hot, the balmy night air feeling thick and suffocating and he pulls at his shirt in an effort to cool off, but his limbs feel heavy, weighed down and uncoordinated. 

“—are you even _listening_ to me? _Hey!_ Asshole, I’m talking to you—“

A finger snaps in his face and Daniel goes to swat it away, but a hand grabs his wrist, tight and warning and _that_ does it. 

The thin tether to reality that Daniel’s been clinging desperately to, _snaps_ like rubber band being pulled too taught and, using Johnny’s grip as an anchor, he shoves him, _hard,_ taking advantage of Johnny’s surprise,yanking his wrist free from his grasp with a harsh tug.

Johnny stumbles back a few steps, shoulders tensing, fists clenching, eyes hard and glinting like steel underneath the wan orange light of the strip mall lights. He’s coiled and ready for a fight, but for once, Daniel isn't interested. 

“ _Don’t_ ,” Daniel rasps, holding up a shaking hand in warning. “Don’t touch me. _Please—_ just— _don’t_.”

“Whoa,” Johnny says, holding his hands up in a placating gesture— _I come in peace._ “Okay, alright. White flag, got it.”

In any other situation, Daniel would laugh at seeing Johnny so obviously freaked out, but as it is, he’s barely managing to get any air into his lungs. His breathing is coming in short, ragged breaths, chest constricting underneath the pressure and his vision swims, the parking lot and Johnny going hazy around the edges, dream like, until his form is indistinguishable and just a shadow figure that could be anyone.

_“If a man can’t see, he can’t fight,”_ Terry Silver’s voice whispers, snakelike, in his ear and for a wild moment, Daniel thinks he’s there, behind him, swears that he can smell his cologne, sickeningly sweet and tinged with sweat, feel his breath, hot on the back of his neck. 

Bile rises, acidic and burning, in his throat and he turns his head just in time to vomit all over the pavement rather than the floorboard of the Audi. 

“ _Jesus_ —what the _fuck_ — _LaRusso_ —“

Distantly, in far recess of his brain, he can feel the embarrassment, the humiliation at showing such an obvious display of weakness, but then his stomach roils again and he’s throwing up again, except there’s nothing in his stomach anymore and it’s just stomach acid, hot and acrid and it scrapes his esophagus raw. 

Tears sting his eyes and they burn like the bile splattering past his lips, all over the pavement beneath the door of the Audi. 

When the angry sea that is his stomach finally comes to a lull, Daniel feels drained and empty, like someone reached in with their bare hands and scooped out all his insides like a Thanksgiving turkey. 

He closes his eyes and rests his head on the arm that’s propped up on the steering wheel, trying to ignore the tremors that make his body almost vibrate with the aftershocks. He can feel the sweat roll down his temple, his neck, dampening his shirt and he shivers against the breeze the wafts through the open door. 

He senses movement, the hair on the back of his neck prickling and he cracks an eye open, spotting familiar ratty Vans and equally as tattered jeans out of his peripherals. He tenses, out of habit, but then a water bottle gets shoved in his face and Johnny murmurs, “Here, drink.”

Too tired to argue, Daniel takes the bottle with quivering fingers and almost drops it, but Johnny catches it with deft hands.

“Easy,” Johnny says, screwing the cap off with a soft _snick_. Their fingers brush when hands it to him and it’s oddly comforting, that small, fleeting touch. “Don’t chug it. Take slow sips and deep breaths in between.”

Daniel follows his instructions, wincing at the initial burn of the cool water sliding down his raw throat, but it ebbs and he takes small, slow sips from the bottle and tries to breathe the way Mr. Miyagi taught him. 

_Focus._ _In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. Good, Daniel-san, very good._

He feels the ache of his mentor’s absence so sharply, it threatens to make him breathless and he wishes, more than anything, for his steady, calm energy that never failed to bring Daniel back from brink he always felt like he was dangling precariously from. Like one wrong move and the rope will snap, sending him spiraling into dark abyss of oblivion. 

Daniel’s always been an intense, passionate guy—he always felt things too deeply and too widely and it always felt too big for his body to contain, like he’s always fit to burst with energy and emotion. Mr. Miyagi helped ground him, helped him learn how to focus his energy and channel it into something so it didn’t feel so big and all consuming. Mr. Miyagi kept him tethered, buoyed and ever since his death, Daniel’s felt like he’s been drifting out to sea, barely able to keep his head above water.

And right now, he feels like a drowning man at the bottom of an angry ocean with no hope for a rescue in sight. 

His stomach knots and he has to force the next sip of water down his throat, wincing when it settles like a rock in pit of his belly. He must look like he’s going to puke again, because Johnny takes the half empty water bottle from him and steps to the side, out of the way. But slowly, the nausea passes and Daniel takes a deep, steadying breath, meeting Johnny’s eyes that are watching him like he’s a puzzle and Johnny can’t quite figure out if he’s got all the pieces to put it together. 

Johnny offers him the water bottle again but Daniel shakes his head, which doesn’t help the dizziness, at all. 

“Come on, LaRusso,” Johnny coaxes, wiggling the half empty water bottle enticingly. “Finish it.”

“You just don’t know when to quit, do you?” Daniel grumbles, but he swipes the bottle out of Johnny’s hand and takes a sip. He’s tempted to be a smart-ass and stick his tongue out so Johnny can see that he swallowed the water, like his ma used to make him do when he was a kid and had to take cough syrup, but he settles for shooting Johnny a look that says, _there, happy now?_

And he looks it, lips quirked up into a little self satisfied grin that Daniel immediately wants to punch away. He would, too, if he had the energy. 

“Funny, I could the same thing about you,” Johnny counters, but there’s no heat behind it. Instead, some of the humor drains from his face, replaced with something akin to worry. “You gonna tell me what this was about?”

Daniel’s first instinct is to say _no,_ it’s on the tip of his tongue, locked and ready to go, but then he meets Johnny eyes, bright blue and genuinely concerned and it takes all the fight out of him. 

“I will,” Daniel says, resigned. “But not here.”

*

Johnny makes him sit there for another thirty minutes and drink an entire bottle of gatorade before he lets him drive. Daniel thinks it a tad bit excessive, especially coming from someone who doesn't think twice about getting behind the wheel of a car, drunk off his ass. 

But Johnny’s a persistent son of a bitch and Daniel doesn't have the energy to argue and what little he does have, he’s reserving it for the unpleasant conversation ahead of them. 

The drive to Miyagi-do is a quick and familiar one, the streets empty of traffic and for that, Daniel’s thankful, because as much as he insisted that he was fine to drive, his mind isn’t completely focused, at least, not on the road in front of him. 

While he’s not in danger of slipping into another panic attack, he can still feel the lingering remnants of anxiety in his belly, his chest, circling like a shark in search of blood, ready to strike at a moments notice. 

He feels keyed up and on edge, hyper aware of Johnny sitting in the passenger seat, making himself at home by going through the glove box, the center console. Whatever it is he’s searching for, he doesn’t find, settling back into the seat with a dissatisfied noise. 

“What?” Daniel asks, chancing a glance over at Johnny when he reaches a red light. 

“Don’t you have any tapes or something? I hate riding in the car with no music,” Johnny complains, shuffling through the glove box again like maybe a Guns ’N’ Roses tape had magically appeared out of thin air in the last thirty seconds since he looked the first time.

Daniel sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache that’s been threatening behind his eyes for the last hour. 

“First of all,” Daniel begins, reaching over to fix the papers Johnny carelessly pawed through in his initial search of the glove box. “This car doesn’t even have a cassette player. They stop putting them in cars almost ten years ago.”

Johnny makes a face and mutters something inelegant under his breath. It’s enough to make Daniel smile. _Almost_. 

“Second of all,” he continues, tapping the touch display screen, bringing up his music library and gestures to it with as much flare as Vanna White turning a new letter on _Wheel of Fortune,_ “everything’s digital now. You can download music to your phone and listen to it whenever you want, without the need for a Walkman or CD player. Most cars nowadays also come with bluetooth, which means that I can just do this—” 

He taps the music app and shuffles through his library, choosing a song at random. Whether it’s a cosmic coincidence or some odd twist of fate, Daniel isn’t sure, but REO Speedwagon begins to play softly through the speakers of the Audi and it takes him back to a few weeks ago, to the day before the tournament—him and Johnny riding together, windows of the Challenger rolled down, warm sun on his skin, wind whipping his hair around as Johnny wove them expertly through the afternoon traffic littering Reseda Boulevard. 

The light turns green and Daniel shakes himself from the memory, taking his foot off the brake and begins driving again, thought can’t help but sneak a glance at Johnny out the corner of his eye. 

Johnny’s staring at the display screen with a look of awe on his face, almost childlike in its wonder. He reaches out a tentative finger and taps the screen, bringing it back to the long list of songs in Daniel’s library. 

“Whoa,” Johnny murmurs, fingers hovering over the screen, like he’s itching to touch it again, but his eyes flickering up Daniel’s in silent askance. 

It reminds Daniel, weirdly, of Sam when she was a child, eyes big and so blue, asking him for permission before she did something, so considerate, even at a young age. 

And much like Sam, Daniel finds he has a hard time telling Johnny, who’s watching him that same pleading look, eyes big and so so blue, as he waits for Daniel’s answer.

“Go a head,” Daniel assures, waving his hand in the direction of the screen. “Knock yourself out.”

Johnny mutters a quiet _yes,_ much like he did when Daniel agreed to the rematch that never happened, like Daniel’s just bestowed him with a gift he’s always wanted and begins scrolling through the library of music with eager fingers, like a child on Christmas morning; eagerly peeling back the layers of wrapping paper to see what’s inside. 

Like Anthony with his tablet, it contends Johnny for the rest of the drive, eyes flickering over the screen as he scrolls through all of Daniel’s music, the blue light of the screen casting his face in a blue glow, highlighting the angle of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the set of his mouth. 

It feels oddly nerve-wracking, letting Johnny comb through his expansive music library. It’s like giving him permission to see inside his brain, to flip through his thoughts and memories and it makes Daniel feel exposed, vulnerable. 

And then he remembers where they’re headed and why they’re going there and he realizes that this feeling—this nervous, uneasy feeling that’s only adding to the anxiety chewing away at his gut—is only a taste of what’s to come. 

By the time they pull into Miyagi-do, he’s worked himself up to the brink of another anxiety attack. Not even the familiar sights and sounds of the house that’s always felt more like home than any place he’s ever been, not even the house in Encino he carefully planned out with Amanda, can soothe his frayed nerves. 

Johnny must sense the change the shift in his demeanor, because he doesn’t linger outside to look over the cars like Daniel knows he wants to. He follows Daniel into the house and doesn’t even make any smart ass remarks about the decor looking like a Japanese restaurant or something equally as asinine, which shows a level of restraint that Daniel didn’t know Johnny was capable of. 

It also makes him wonder just how wrecked he looks to Johnny. If he looks as fragile as he feels.

It must be pretty bad, he decides, when Johnny slips his shoes off as soon as they enter the house, without any prompting from Daniel necessary. He even lines them up neatly next to Daniel’s on the little mat that’s been there for as long as he can remember. 

He pads into the kitchen, flicking lights on as he goes and starts the familiar routine of making tea—filling the ancient kettle with water, setting it on the stove, flames flickering to life with a soft _hiss_ when he turns the burner on. His body is moving on muscles memory, too preoccupied with how he’s going to start this conversation, where he should even begin, how much he wants to share. _If_ he still wants to share. 

He’s afraid of making himself vulnerable, yes, but it’s more than than just the normal, _I’m scared to open up and talk about my feelings._ This is a different kind of fear; it’s deep seated, engrained into his very bones and one he’s been intimately familiar with his entire life: fear of rejection. 

His biggest worry, out of all of this, is that Johnny’s not going to believe him.That he’s going to think he’s making this up as some weird tactic to win this petty war of the dojos and get Cobra Kai shut down for good. 

Even at the height of his scheming, Daniel’s never once thought to bring this particular piece of his past to light. Not even when he was in that dive bar by his old apartment, drunk off martinis and the thrill of getting to know intimate details about Johnny’s life that he’d never dreamed of being privy to. 

But seeing Kreese tonight, his arm thrown almost possessively over Johnny’s shoulder like a proud breeder showing off his most prized stallion, brought back the memories that Daniel had long since pushed down and tried his damnedest to forget about over the last thirty-four years—the snap of a trophy. Kreese’s arms, tight like a vice, around Johnny’s throat. Johnny’s youthful face, red and scared as he fought desperately to get out of Kreese’s chokehold. The despondent look on his face as he rubbed at his neck, staring at his sensei as he lay, crumpled and bloodied, on the ground a few feet away. 

Daniel finds himself wondering, as gathers cups out of the cabinet, how Johnny can accept Kreese so easily back into his life after everything that man put him through. 

It makes Daniel burn with anger and something else that feels a lot like betrayal. He and Johnny have a lot in common—something he can remember through the haze of martinis and the tequila shots he downed after he got tired of hearing Johnny poke fun at his lack of male genitalia for drinking what he considered a chick’s drink—but one thing that had given Daniel solace, more than finding out about Johnny’s lack of a dad or his mutual hatred of Ali’s husband, was the knowledge that, the one thing that they both loved to the point of obsession, had been tainted by the same man, even if he kept that particular detail to himself. 

It doesn’t make sense, because it’s not like Johnny knows about his past with Kreese and Cobra Kai—at least, not yet—but it still feels like someone pouring salt over a wound that’s yet to scab over. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Johnny’s eyes sweeping over the house—taking in his laptop, charging on the coffee table, his jackets hung up on the rack by the door, the amount of shoes lined up neatly on the mat, the used dishes in the sink, all signs of someone living here on a day to day basis. It doesn’t take a genius to put the pieces together and Johnny’s a lot of things, but he’s not dumb. 

Johnny’s eyes fall to Daniel’s left hand, searching and coming up empty, blue eyes lingering on the fading tan line of where the gold band used to be, the only evidence left behind that the ring had even been there in first place. 

“Amanda and I are getting a divorce,” Daniel confirms, even though he knows he doesn't need to. When Johnny’s gaze flicker up to his with a silent question, Daniel looks away, down at the empty cups, picking at a chip in the porcelain. “All of _this—_ “ he waves a vague hand, unsure what he’s really gesturing to, Johnny or the house turned dojo, “—became too much and we—well, I guess I’m not as good at balancing things as I originally thought,” he finishes with a bitter laugh. 

The kettle whistles and Daniel takes it off the burner, turning it off and setting on the tea tray. He gathers cups and spoons, packets of sugar and sticks of raw honey in case Johnny likes his tea sweet and sets them on the tray along with the container he keeps the tea grounds in. 

Johnny stops him on his way over to table, resting a hesitant on the bare skin of his forearm and he feels the burn of the touch all the way down to his socked feet. 

“That sucks,” Johnny says in answer to Daniel’s questioning eyebrows. “About you and Amanda, I mean,” he clarifies when Daniel’s eyebrows tick higher.

Daniel looks down at the tray in his hands to hide his surprise and gives a nonchalant shrug. “It’s okay. I mean, it yeah, it sucks,” he says, borrowing Johnny’s words, lips quirking up into a ghost of a smile before it slips away, settling into thoughtful frown. “But things haven’t been okay between us for a long time. We wanted to stay together, for the kids sake, at least until they were older but—well, we want different things and that’s no reason to stay together, not when we we both weren’t happy. Not good for the kids, either, to see us like that. It’s not easy but—, he shrugs again, looking up a Johnny with a rueful smile, “—we’re making it work. Splitting time with the kids, the business. Not a lot changed, really. We’re just not living together and we’re seeing other people that’s not each other.”

Johnny’s eyebrows raise, almost disappearing underneath the swoop of blonde hair that hasn’t changed much since high school, lips quirking up into his signature smirk, but it looks _off_ for some reason, almost flat. There’s an odd tightness around the lines of his eyes, a weird twitch to his jaw and it leaves Daniel feeling puzzled. 

“You got a girlfriend, LaRusso?” Johnny demands, eyes flickering over the house, like he’s going to find her stashed behind a bonsai. “Where’d you find this one, Babies-R-Us?”

Daniel rolls his eyes, pushing past Johnny to set the tea tray down on the low table. 

“Amanda’s not _that_ much younger than me, asshole,” Daniel says, knees popping when he settles on a _zabuton._ “And not that it’s any of your business, but no, I don’t have a girlfriend. I’m not the one seeing anyone, Amanda is. Her and Anoush have been out on a couple of dates and from what I understand, it’s going pretty well.”

“Oh, c’mon, you’ve got to be kidding me, _that_ guy?” Johnny demands, incredulous, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “He’s all—“ he waves a hand, like he’s searching for the right words. “Short,” he settles on, making Daniel snort. “And Amanda’s way out of his league.”

“Anoush is a good guy,” Daniel says with a shrug, pouring out two mugs of hot water. “Besides, he’s been in love with Amanda for years, so I know he’ll treat her right. And the kids like him—well,” he amends, scooping out green tea and stirring it into the hot water, “Anthony likes him because he bribes him with new video games and Sam doesn’t really care that much, as long as we’re both happy. So. Small victories, I guess.”

“Can’t be that good of a guy if he’s been in love with Amanda despite the fact that she was married,” Johnny counters, tone disbelieving. “And you knew about this and you didn’t kick is ass?”

Daniel levels him with a _look_ and Johnny just blinks back, shrugging his shoulders in a what? way that makes Daniel sigh. 

“Yes, Johnny, because that would’ve been the solution: beat up Anoush just because he made moony eyes at Amanda,” Daniel deadpans, grabbing a honey stick and biting the end off with his teeth. 

“It’s an alpha move, man,” Johnny says with a shrug. “Gotta protect what’s yours.”

Daniel hums. “And how’d that work out for you, John?” he asks, taking a careful sip of his tea, raising a pointed eyebrow. “Because if I remember correctly, it didn’t stop me from dating Ali.”

Johnny’s eyes narrow, but after a minute he shrugs, conceding. “Whatever, man, I still kicked your ass,” he says with a sniff, eyes roving once again over the house. “So, are you going to explain to me what your little freak out in the parking lot was about or did you just drag me here to be your relationship headshrinker?”

_Right_ , Daniel thinks to himself grimly, _that._

For a moment, he’d almost forgotten why they were here—or at least, he’d been hoping that Johnny would forget. 

But underneath the sarcasm, Daniel can see a burning curiosity, a desire to know what caused such visceral reaction to Kreese’s sudden and completely unexpected reappearance in their lives. 

There’s also a worry, tugging his lips down into a frown, but for who or whatit’s for, Daniel isn’t sure. Selfishly, he hopes it’s for him, but Daniel knows that there’s more to it than that—Johnny has a tendency to be blind when it comes to people he loves, a willingness to overlook certain parts of their personality as long as they’re giving him something he so desperately craves. 

It’s reckless and self-destructive and it makes Daniel nervous, hands shaking around his tea cup. 

And staring into Johnny’s unfathomably blue eyes, Daniel feels that familiar fear of rejection pool in his belly, mixing with the anxiety that’s already there. The thought of carving himself open and laying himself, bare and vulnerable, at Johnny Lawrence’s mercy, makes him want to turn tail and run away into the night, to pretend the last few hours, this whole _day_ , never happened. 

But then Mr. Miyagi’s voice, soft and chiding, whispers, _It’s okay to lose to opponent, but must not lose to fear. Focus, Daniel-san._

Those words, once upon a time, gave Daniel the strength to get up off the floor, to push through the aches and the pains and the fatigue that weighed his body down, to face his demons head on, once and for all. 

And they do the same thing for him now.

Mustering up all the strength he can, Daniel squares his squares and meets Johnny’s gaze straight on and tries not to let the fear stewing in his gut bleed into his voice when he says, “Okay, I’ll tell you.”

Johnny nods but Daniel’s not done. 

“On one condition.”

Johnny raises an eyebrow, looking a little unsure underneath the bravo and it makes Daniel smile. 

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” Johnny demands, crossing his arms over his chest, muscles flexing with the movement. 

“If you sit down and drink at least one cup of tea.”

Johnny visibly relaxes and with a roll of his eyes, he plops down across from Daniel and grabs the cup, dumping a few scoops of the green tea grounds into the tepid water and swirls it around the cup before he downs it like a shot, visibly wincing at the taste. 

“It takes like shit,” Johnny informs him, belching loudly for emphasis. 

Laughter bubbles, bright and unexpected, from Daniel’s throat and he reaches across the table to grab the cup out of Johnny’s hands. 

“That’s because you didn’t do it right,” Daniel admonishes, taking it upon himself to mix up a new cup, adding a stick of honey—just how he likes it—before he hands it back to Johnny, letting their fingers brush as the cup exchanges hands. “Here, try it now.”

Johnny takes a hesitant sip and Daniel waits, hands around his own cup, watching as the warm tea brings a flush to Johnny’s cheeks, blue eyes widening imperceptibly at the flavor of the tea and honey on his tongue.

It takes some of the edge off his anxiety, focusing on Johnny’s fingers as they wrap around the cup that looks so tiny in his strong hands, grip delicate, like he’s afraid if he’s hold it too tightly, it’ll shatter underneath his fingertips. 

Daniel wonders if Johnny feels that way about him, too. 

It’s that thought that gives Daniel the final push he needs to swallow back the fear and open his mouth and start talking, because there’s only one way to find out. 

(Johnny’s not the only one—Daniel’s always been a little too reckless and self-destructive for his own good, too). 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d spotted LaRusso’s sleek black SUV and prepared himself for angry words and insults. For fists to fly and for one of them ending up flat on their ass on the pavement in their usual form of communication.
> 
> What he hadn’t prepared himself for was finding LaRusso, pale, shaken and in the middle of a full blown panic attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! 
> 
> Before we get to the chapter, I want to take a minute and give a huge THANK YOU to everyone who took time to read, comment, leave a kudos or take time to reach out to me via tumblr or discord about this story. I was super nervous about writing this--I haven't spent much time delving into the world of adult Lawrusso, but the response was overwhelmingly positive and I'm so happy that you guys love this story as much as I do. 
> 
> This chapter was a bit tricky for me to write, but I'm very pleased with how it turned out and I'm excited for you guys to read it. However, a few things:
> 
> This chapter is from Johnny's POV and if you haven't seen KK3, then I'll give you a heads up that this chapter delves into the trauma that Daniel suffered at the hands of Kreese and Terry Silver. It's angsty and a little dark, but I don't believe it should be triggering, but just in case, I wanted to give you guys a fair warning. 
> 
> I also make playlists for most of my fics and this one is no exception, so if you would like to listen along to it, I'll link it down below. This is what I listen to whenever I'm writing and generally add to it as I go along. 
> 
> Also, I do all my editing myself, I don't have a beta, so there may be a few mistakes here and there that I miss, so apologies in advance :)
> 
> Without further ado, welcome to chapter two :)

Johnny isn’t sure what possessed him to go after LaRusso. After all, it’s not like they’re friends. He shouldn’t care about the little jersey punk throwing a PMS-level tantrum. _He’s_ the one that showed up here, _he’s_ the one that’s always determined to undermine Johnny any chance he gets. _He’s_ the one hellbent on destroying Johnny’s life over shit that happened in fucking high school.

(Even if Johnny had been a total shithead and never really formally apologized. Sure, he handed the guy the trophy after he delivered an illegal kick to his face and told him _you’re alright, Larusso,_ but it never really went further than that. He’s man enough to admit that it might’ve taken a little bit more than that to make up for, _you know_ , shoving him off a hillside, beating him into the sand and damn near putting him in a coma on Halloween). 

_Anyway._

The point remains: He shouldn’t care. 

And he’s doesn’t. Not _really._

(He does, a little bit)

Except, there’d been something _off_ about the whole thing. LaRusso seemed twitchier than usual—which, was saying something because that guy is _always_ twitchy. Probably drinks too much of some hipster, man bun inspired Starbucks blend that’s somehow organic and vegan and has antioxidants or what the fuck ever it was the rich people drank. 

The look in Larusso’s eyes, well, it’s one Johnny knows intimately—fear. In its purest, deepest form. 

Which, doesn’t really add up. 

Like, okay, _yeah,_ Kreese was an asshole and the biggest cheerleader for them bullying the little twerp, but for Larusso to be _that_ afraid of him—well, it made Johnny feel like he was _missing_ something.

Call it intuition, call it a gut feeling, _whatever_ that mystical psychic mumbo-jumbo bullshit was called, but he just couldn't ignore it. 

(It also didn’t help that there was this little voice inside him—that sounded an awful lot like Miguel—had whispered _go after him)._

And before he really registered what he was doing, Johnny felt his feet move in the direction of LaRusso’s car. 

He’d felt Kreese’s gaze, burning like a brand, along the back of his neck. It had been enough to make his steps falter, doubt coiling in his gut, the conditioned response to the silent warning: _step out of line Mr. Lawrence and you won’t like what happens._ He’d felt sixteen again, trapped and pinned underneath the weight of that stare, helpless to fight back. It had pissed him off and only strengthened his resolve to keep walking, fighting the urge to submit the entire way. It hadn’t been until he’d rounded the corner and therefore out of sight that he’d felt himself relax, fists and shoulders unclenching. 

He’d spotted LaRusso’s sleek black SUV andprepared himself for angry words and insults. For fists to fly and for one of them ending up flat on their ass on the pavement in their usual form of communication.

What he _hadn’t_ prepared himself for was finding LaRusso, pale, shaken and in the middle of a full blown panic attack. 

LaRusso had always been a runt—skinny and long limbed with no real muscle definition—but he’d never been what Johnny would consider _small._ But when LaRusso had opened the door to his stupidly expensive car, shaking worse than an addict in desperate need of a hit and breathing like a woman in labor, well, to say that Johnny was shocked had been an understatement

As much as it pained Johnny to admit it, between his loud mouth and Jersey swagger, LaRusso had a wry strength about him, a fire that never seemed to go out no matter how many times he got knocked down. The fucker was like a bozo bop, because no matter how many times he got punched, the asshole sprung right back up again for more. Johnny knew this from first hand experience—LaRusso was resilient, like a goddamn cat with an endless supply of lives. 

It was endearingly annoying and something Johnny—deep, deep, _deep,_ down in the inner recesses of his mind that he refused to acknowledge sober—admired about the guy. 

And seeing him visibly shaken and shrunken in on himself, like he’d been trying to make himself appear _small,_ it’d been enough to make all the anger burn out from Johnny like someone had dumped a bucket of cold water over him. It was only made worse once he’d seen the look on LaRusso’s face, the look in his eyes and it damn near brought Johnny to his knees. 

Because he’d seen that look on LaRusso’s face exactly once before—senior year, the night of the Halloween dance, when they’d chased him all the way from the high school, back to his shitty apartment in Reseda and kicked the shit out of him, five against one. Johnny had remembered holding LaRusso’s face in hands—bloodied and beaten, fresh bruises blooming over the ones that had just started to heal, skin warm from exertion and wet with tears. But it had been those eyes—those big, fathomless, expressive, _eyes,_ filled to the brim with noting but pure, unadulterated _terror—_ that had woken him from anger clouding his mind and silenced Kreese’s repeated mantra of _no mercy,_ allowing him to hear Bobby telling him to _stop it, he’s had enough._

(Sometimes, when the beer has worn off before he manages to stumble into bed, Johnny dreams about that night. About what would’ve happened if the old man hadn’t stepped in. If he would’ve stopped. If he could’ve stopped. If he would’ve ended up killing LaRusso right there, over as something as stupid as a _girl_. If he would’ve left a mother childless due to his inability to control his anger and his desperate desire to please a man who was nothing but a sadistic, insecure _psychopath._ He’s like to think he would’ve. Or that one of the other’s would’ve stepped in and stopped him. But he knows, down to his core, that it’s just wishful thinking and his own selfish yearning to absolve himself from the guilt that’s haunted him like the worst sort of ghost for the last thirty four years). 

The memory had hit him like a physical blow, making Johnny sick to his stomach and he’d fought tooth and nail to not give into the urge to ralph all over the pavement right alongside LaRusso. 

And even now, sitting across from him at a table fit for toddlers, the urge hasn’t really gone away.

It doesn’t help that LaRusso looks about as small as this stupid table, shoulders hunched and staring into his tiny tea cup like he’s trying to read his future in the tea leaves. Like maybe if he tries hard enough, he can blend right into the weird Asian chic motif and make himself disappear from existence. 

Johnny knows the feeling. And he also knows it doesn't work. He’s tried. 

The urge to _know_ is making him impatient, but he doesn’t want to rush LaRusso, who looks about three seconds away from suffering another nervous breakdown like that Britney chick that shaved her head back in 2007. 

(Miguel had showed him the meme or whatever the fuck those stupid picture things were called that the kids text messaged each other. Underneath the picture of the girl shaving her head, it had said: _if Britney can survive 2007, you can make it through today._

Johnny had been that one-beer-away-from-drunk and had found it _hilarious_ but also weirdly relatable. He’d also thought the Britney chick had been hot, even with the shaved head and that’s about the time Miguel had cut him off because Johnny may or may not have said that out loud). 

So, Johnny drinks the tea that he doesn't want to admit is actually good and waits. After a few minutes, LaRusso—fucking _finally—_ takes one of those long, meditating breaths that remind Johnny of the one lamaze class he attended with Shannon when she was pregnant with Robby— _breathe in, one, two, three. Breathe out, one, two, three._

Johnny doesn’t know if worked for Shannon, but it seems to work for LaRusso, who, when he meets Johnny’s eyes, looks a bit more centered. Not _calm_ , exactly, but he no longer resembles Janet Leigh in _Psycho_ so. _Progress._

“The summer after we graduated high school, my ma got a job in Fresno and I didn’t want to move again, so Mr. Miyagi took me in,” LaRusso begins, tracing an idle finger around the rim of his tea cup. “We were in the middle of building that room out there—“ he jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of what Johnny assumes, is the backyard. “—but before we could finish, Mr. Miyagi got a letter saying that his father was dyin’ and was askin’ him to come back to Okinawa to say goodbye.”

LaRusso’s mouth twists down into a frown and Johnny has a feeling there’s a story there, too, but something tells him now’s not the time to ask. 

“I knew what it was like to lose a father and after everything he did for me, I wanted to be there for him, you know?”

Johnny _didn’t_ know, but LaRusso looked so earnest that Johnny found himself nodding along like he did. 

“So, we went and it was…an experience,” LaRusso settles on, tone guarded and now Johnny knows, with one hundred precent certainty, that there’s _definitely_ a story there and he’s dying to know what it is. “Anyways. After we got back, I moved in with Mr. Miyagi, we started a business together and life was going okay,” LaRusso pauses, lips pulling down into grim line. “And then I got a letter from the All Valley board in the mail, inviting me back to defend my title.”

LaRusso looks away, grip tightening on the tea cup and Johnny worries for a moment that it might shatter in his tight grip. He looks so lost in his memories that Johnny finds himself wondering if he would even feel it if it did. 

“They made a change in the rules where the former champion didn’t have to compete in the entire tournament, they just had to compete in the finals and win to keep their title—“

“What the fuck—that’s—that’s _bullshit!_ ” Johnny can’t help but interrupt, indignant. “That’s the _dumbest_ fucking thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life and trust me, I’ve heard some dumb shit. Not competing in the whole tournament, what kind of pussy ass shit is that— _what?_ ” 

LaRusso’s watching him with this _look_ that makes the tips of Johnny’s ears burn, lips pulled up in a smile that tells Johnny he’s trying really, _really_ hard not to laugh. 

“Nothin’, Johnny, it’s just—“ LaRusso shakes his head, chuckling softly and 

the sound makes Johnny’s stomach flip flop in a way that he really hopes is gas or a weird allergic reaction to the tea and not what he _thinks_ it is.“—that _would_ be something you get upset about.”

“And with every reason to, man,” Johnny says, not the least bit ashamed. “I mean, that’s some pussy shit, not competing in the entire tournament. Who even _thinks_ of that?” He shakes his head in disgust. “That’s just as bad as the sad sack who came up with the idea that every kid has to get a trophy, even if they suck complete donkey dick. What the fuck is the point of competing if everyone gets a trophy? And what kind of lesson is _that_ teaching kids? How to be entitled assholes?” He scoffs and takes a swig of his tea, wishing it was something stronger. “Kids, man, they gotta learn that life ain’t all sunshine and roses. You win some and you lose some and sometimes, you just _suck_ at shit and you shouldn’t get trophies for sucking.”

LaRusso, the asshole, laughing by the end of Johnny’s tirade and it’s kind of a nice change from the wounded Bambi look he’s been sporting for the last few hours. Even if the laughter is directed at him. Because Johnny doesn’t think he’s ever made LaRusso laugh before and LaRusso laughing is…a sight, to say the least.

It’s not the sarcastic, exasperated little scoff Johnny usually gets. It’s open and genuine, the sound bright and breathy and it lights up his entire face, making his eyes dance and his nose crinkle in a way that’s so adorable it makes Johnny want to lean across the table and kiss it. 

The thought pulls Johnny up short and he blinks down at the cup of tea in his hands and thinks, _what the fuck is in this shit?_

LaRusso had to of drugged him, that has to be it, because there’s no way, no _fucking_ way that Johnny would ever want to, just— _no_ —

“God,” LaRusso says, wiping at his eyes “I didn’t know how badly I needed that, thank you.”

His cheeks are flushed, eyes sparkling in the low light when they meet Johnny’s across the table and like, Johnny didn’t even know it was _possible_ for eyes to do that, but here’s the proof, right here—LaRusso’s big, doe eyes glittering, the little flecks of gold that Johnny’s just now noticed twinkling and winking like new pennies in the sun and the sight feels like an illegal crane kick to the jaw. 

“Anytime,” Johnny says dumbly. 

LaRusso’s lips quirk up at the corners in this little amused smirk that makes Johnny’s palms feel sweaty and clammy, but it’s gone as soon as it appeared, setting into a grim look that makes Johnny’s belly clench. 

_Right._

They were here for a _reason_ —a very unpleasant one if the last few hours were anything to judge by—and it wasn’t to giggle and flirt over weird, health conscious and (possibly) drugged tea like teenagers on a first date at Starbucks. 

“So,” Johnny says, prompting. “The tournament?”

“Right—the tournament,” LaRusso says, shifting on his little pillow thingy, clearing his throat. “So, yeah, I’m readin’ this letter, right and I’m thinking ‘Okay, I can do this, I want to do this, I _have_ to do this’ and maybe it’s dumb, but I wanted to prove to myself that my win in ’84 wasn’t just a fluke. Like maybe, if I won again, that it meant that I was actually _good_ at something and I wouldn’t be the loser I always felt like I was in high school,” he shakes his head and takes a sip of his tea. “I don’t know, maybe it’s stupid but I just—wanted that feeling, that sense of accomplishment, that I was worth somethin’, you know?”

Johnny swallows. 

_Hard._

Because he _does_ know. 

_God,_ does he know. 

LaRusso shakes his head again and Johnny can physically _see_ him batting those unwanted thoughts away, like if he shoves them hard enough, they’ll eventually get pushed far enough to the back of his brain where he can pretend like they don’t exist. 

(It’s a move Johnny knows well and he also knows it doesn't work. He’s found that the only way to silence those kinds of thoughts is to get blissfully, blackout _drunk_ to the point where he doesn’t even remember his own name, let alone what he’s trying desperately not to remember. Works like a charm every time)

And it’s shocking, really, how much the two of them have in common. It’s the same feeling Johnny had a few weeks ago, sitting next to LaRusso at the bar, tongue loose from the alcohol they downed like water, opening up to each other like old friends. Each new piece of information Johnny learned had about LaRusso—how he loved hockey more than baseball, that he knew every word to Tiny Dancer and he wasn’t the least bit embarrassed by it, that he actually hated martinis despite the fact that he insisted, quite a few times, that he _loved_ them—chipped away at the image he’d kept of Daniel LaRusso over the years. And it had occurred to Johnny, as he’d sipped his Coors Banquet and listened to LaRusso wax poetic about Stevie Nicks, that he’d never really thought of LaRusso as a _person,_ let alone a person he might have something in common with. 

“Anyways,” LaRusso continues, pulling Johnny from his thoughts. “It didn’t matter, because when I brought the idea up to Mr. Miyagi, he was totally against it. He reminded me that karate was for defense only and it wasn’t to be used to win trophies.” A rueful smile pulls at LaRusso’s lips. “I argued with him, but there was no use, he didn’t change his mind. And eventually, I decided that he was right—I didn’t need to compete or win trophies. I loved karate, I didn’t need a bunch of titles to prove it.” LaRusso looks away, out into the back yard, mouth twisting down into a frown. “And then Mike Barnes and Terry Silver happened.”

The name rings a bell and it takes a moment for him to place it, the memory coming back to him in muddled, fragmented pieces that usually go along with excessive drinking—the hard plastic chair, the empty brief case at his feet, the scratchy material of his suit jacket, LaRusso’s vaguely sick look when that particular name got brought into the conversation.

_The committee meeting,_ he thinks with a mental snap of his fingers, _right._

“Terry Silver,” Johnny says slowly, testing the name out on his tongue. “The guy that got Cobra Kai a lifetime ban from the All Valley?”

LaRusso snorts, the sound bitter and sharp and not at all humorous. “Yeah, and with good reason,” he says and then winces, shooting Johnny an apologetic look. “Sorry, that wasn’t—I shouldn’t of said that.”

Johnny waves him off—one, because he looks like he really means it and two, because he wonders, sometimes, if maybe the committee made the right decision to lift the ban, especially after what happened between Hawk and Robby, Miguel and Robby. 

Robby’s defeated look. The disappointment in his green eyes when he said _it’s okay dad_ with that sad little smile he always gives Johnny whenever he’s screwed up and missed a birthday or a soccer game or some school event that Shannon had stopped inviting him to somewhere around the time Robby was in fourth or fifth grade. 

It’s ironic, really, how he’s screwed up royally with one kid and yet he thought it would be a _brilliant_ idea to give himself the responsibility of trying not to screw up other people’s kids. 

“But yes,” LaRusso says, answering Johnny’s question. “He’s the one responsible for getting Cobra Kai banned from any NCAA sanctioned events and—“ he takes a shaky breath, brown eyes wide and fathomless as they stare into Johnny’s almost pleadingly. “—why I was such an asshole at the committee meeting—why I’ve been so against Cobra Kai opening back up in the valley in the first place.”

LaRusso tenses, almost like he’s bracing himself for an upcoming blow and Johnny unconsciously braces himself, too.

“Terry Silver isn’t a nice man,” LaRusso continues, tone grim, grip tightening on his tea cup. His hands are shaking, Johnny notes and it makes him tense all the more because this is it, right here. “I didn’t know that when I met him, but then again, there’s a lot of things I didn’t know, until later.”

LaRusso pauses to fix himself more tea and Johnny can see the way his hands tremble as he scoops the tea into the water, the flutter of his racing pulse in the delicate skin of his wrist and without thinking much about it, Johnny reaches out and captures that shaking hand in his. 

LaRusso looks up, startled, almost dropping the tea cup in the process. “John, what—“

“You don’t have to this,” Johnny says, voice soft, but his tone is firm. “You don’t have to—tell me all of this. It’s a lot, I can tell and you don’t have to—“

LaRusso’s smile is sad, but his eyes are determined, burning with that same fire that nearly consumed Johnny from across the mat back in ’84.

“I do, John,” LaRusso disagrees quietly, giving Johnny’s hand a quick squeeze before he pulls away, retreating back to his side of the table, the touch lingering like a memory on Johnny’s skin. “You need to know.”

And the thing is, as much as Johnny wants to know, needs to know, he’s suddenly _terrified_ to hear. He wants to throw his hands over his ears like a child and shout _la la la la_ at the top of his lungs to avoid hearing something he knows, down to his bones, he doesn’t want to hear. 

LaRusso takes a sip of his tea before he sets the cup carefully on the matching chipped saucer. _Too_ carefully. Almost like he’s aware of the tension coiled tightly underneath his skin and he’s terrified of losing control of it. 

“Terry posed as Kreese’s sensei. Said he heard about the tournament, what happened after—“ LaRusso’s eyes flicker to his neck, gaze searching for the bruises that aren’t there but that they both remember. “—and he wanted to apologize on Kreese’s behalf. I told him if Kreese wanted to apologize, he could tell me himself. And that’s when he told me that Kreese was dead—that he died from the pain of losing all of his students.” 

_Dead my ass_

That’s what LaRusso had said, when he walked up to them outside the strip mall, and he’d sounded so betrayed, almost like Johnny had lied to him, even though he did no such thing. 

_But someone did,_ he thinks to himself and the thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

LaRusso scoffs, shaking his head bitterly. “I should’ve _known._ But after everything that happened I wanted it to be true. So, I believed him and that’s the worst mistake that I’ve ever made in my entire life.”

And the thing is, Johnny has a feeling he means it. 

“It turns out that Silver owned Cobra Kai and he bought it for Kreese because they were old war buddies. But after the tournament, what happened between you two, well, I guess he lost all of his students and they blamed me for it. And they wanted revenge, so Silver hired Mike Barnes the ‘bad boy of karate’ to enter the tournament and beat me—by any means necessary,” LaRusso adds with a dark chuckle that sends a shiver of feat racing down Johnny’s spine. 

“But you didn’t want to fight,” Johnny feels the need to point out, almost desperately, a feeling of foreboding building in gut like a rise in the tide. 

LaRusso gives him a brittle smile, dark eyes haunted. “No,” he agrees quietly. “I didn’t. But that wasn’t the answer Kreese and Silver wanted.”

And suddenly, with a sinking feeling, Johnny knows where this is going. He _knows_ it, down to his bones and it makes him want to throw up. 

“They coerced you,” Johnny says and it’s not a question. 

LaRusso barks out a laugh that’s—well, _ugly,_ is the only way Johnny can think to describe it. 

“I didn’t know it was them at the time. Mike Barnes was his hired gun and let’s just say the things he and his buddies did, the extremes they went to get me to enter the tournament, well,” LaRusso’s lips twist into a smile tinged with dark humor. “It made you and the rest of your little Cobra Kai gang look a training exercise.”

_“Jesus_ ,” Johnny breathes, stomach roiling. 

“I knew they weren’t going to stop, so I entered the tournament to get them off my back. I didn’t even care about winning, I just wanted the harassment to _stop._ But Mr. Miyagi—“ LaRusso’s jaw clenches, eyes far away, lost in the memory. “He didn’t see it the same way as me. He didn’t want me to fight and because of that, he wouldn’t train me. I felt like I was alone and I was angry, so _fucking_ angry because I thought I was done with this shit, you know? I won the All Valley, I beat you—I didn’t want to have to keep fighting anymore. I wanted to just—move on with my life and put all that shit behind me but I _couldn’t._ I knew if I backed out, it would only get worse and around that time, Silver stepped in to play hero and told me he would train me.”

LaRusso clenches his eyes shut, grip tightening around the cup in his hands like it’s the only thing grounding him to the earth. 

“He was _brutal_ ,” LaRusso breathes shakily, lips trembling. “He used this—this _dummy_ that was made out of two by fours and I had to—punch through them, kick through them, because if a man can’t stand, he can’t fight. If a man can’t breathe, he can’t fight. If he can’t see, he can’t fight—“ LaRusso sounds like he’s choking on air and Johnny doesn’t think, he just reaches across the table and grips his hands tightly in his own. 

LaRusso eyes blink open at the touch and Johnny has to physically fight the urge to look away from the amount of agony that stares back at him from the depths of those big, Bambi eyes. It’s bone chilling, freezing Johnny’s insides to the core.

“They wanted me to be afraid, to be all twisted up and confused and it _worked_. They made me _bleed,”_ LaRusso whispers, hands trembling in his, so Johnny does the only thing he can think of: he holds on tighter. “And Mr. Miyagi— _God,_ Mr. Miyagi, he knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t face him because I was lying to him and I knew what I was learning was wrong—the things that I did—“ LaRusso shakes his head, a sound that’s half way between a sob and a laugh leaving his lips. “—but a part of me _liked_ it. It made me feel— _strong. Powerful._ Almost like I was—“

“—invincible,” Johnny finishes for him, voice barely above a whisper.

LaRusso looks up at him in surprise. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly. “Except I was afraid—all the time. And angry. So angry,” he breathes, shuddering. “I’ve always had a temper but this was— _different_. I was…on edge, all the time and it felt like the only thing keeping me in control was to focus on that fear, because if I didn’t, then I would just _snap._ I _did_ snap,” he corrects himself, swallowing. “I punched a guy—but I didn’t just punch him, I like—punched through him, almost like—“

“—the guy you wanted to really hit was standing behind that asshole?” Johnny asks rhetorically, giving LaRusso a guilty smile. 

It’s the same way Kreese had taught him. The same way he taught Miguel. Hawk. Aisha. Fuckin’ _Bert._

_Jesus,_ he thinks to himself, stomach welling with shame, _I’m no fucking better than Kreese or Silver._

The revelation is only made worse by LaRusso staring at him with those large, dumb doe eyes, brimming with not just sympathy but _empathy,_ like somehow Johnny deserves it. The thought would be funny, if Johnny didn’t feel like it’s _his_ turn to take a swan dive off the deep end.

“I broke the guy’s nose,” LaRusso admits, ashamed, brown eyes swimming with guilt. “I’d never—I’ve never lost control like that,” he whispers. “I just— _reacted._ I saw red and I just snapped and the next thing I know, the guy’s on the floor, his blood is on my hands and all I remember thinking was that he _deserved_ it. Like my actions were somehow justified and then I saw the way people looked at me—like I was this… _monster_ and that’s when I knew that I—I couldn’t keep living like that—angry and scared and just…out of control. But when I went to tell Silver that I didn’t want to train with him anymore, they were all waiting for me at the old Cobra Kai dojo—Silver, Barnes and Kreese, who was supposed to be fucking _dead_ —and they let me in on their little plan. Three against one, ” he says with dark chuckle. “Thankfully, Mr. Miyagi followed me there and broke it up before it got too bad.”

Johnny can picture it—LaRusso, scared and alone, Kreese, Silver and Barnes, taking turns kicking the shit out of him—and he wants to puke, because he’s _been_ there, done that. 

_I’m no fucking better than them_

LaRusso takes a shuddering breath, startling Johnny out of his thoughts.“Mr. Miyagi agreed to train me after that and I won the tournament but it didn’t—it didn’t really feel like winning,” he says with a hollow laugh. “Not when I barely got out of it alive.”

He doesn't elaborate and Johnny doesn’t push him—mostly because Daniel looks like he’s seriously considering using this tiny table for a bed, he’s that exhausted, but there’s also a small part of Johnny that just… _can’t_ hear anymore. A part of him that doesn't _want_ to hear anymore.

So he contends himself with tracing the back of LaRusso’s hand, the skin smooth and warm underneath his fingertips. He wonders how much money the punk must spend on hand lotion and creams to keep the skin that soft and youthful, despite his age. Wonders if there’s a part of LaRusso that _does_ age, because despite being fifty, the asshole looks damn near the same as he did in high school. 

The difference in their lifestyles is blatant in just the appearance of their hands alone. His are rough and calloused, scarred from years of working in construction and the occasional (frequent) drunken bar fights, while LaRusso’s are as smooth as a baby’s ass and as tan as the rest of him. The only thing that mars the otherwise perfect skin are thin, white scars that spider web themselves over his knuckles, almost like the skin had been repeatedly split open and was never allowed to properly heal. Johnny’s punched a few walls (and faces) over the years to know that kind of damage can only be inflicted by hitting something, over and over, and with a hell of a lot of force.

_“He used this—this dummy that was made out of two by fours and I had to—punch through them, kick through them—_

“ _—they wanted me to be afraid—_

_“—they made me bleed—“_

Johnny feels like he’s going to be sick. 

“I have them on my feet and legs, too.”

Johnny blinks, startled, looking up at LaRusso in surprise. 

LaRusso nods his hands, still tightly held in Johnny’s grasp. “The scars. Kreese—“ he pauses, swallowing heavily. “He wanted me to bleed. Pay back for the parking lot.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate. 

Johnny can remember, through the haze of oxygen deprivation and shame, the sound of glass shattered, the smell of blood, sharp and coppery—

_How are your knuckles there, Kreese?_

“God— _Daniel,”_ He chokes and he doesn’t even know _what_ to say, what he can say, where he should even begin, when _LaRusso_ became _Daniel_ —

_They made me bleed_

_They made me bleed_

_Theymademebleedtheymademebleedtheymademebleed—_

“John. _Johnny,_ ” Daniel says, giving his hand a quick squeeze. “You didn’t know. You didn’t—this isn’t your fault, okay? I don’t blame you for this—you couldn’t—you _didn’t_ know,” his eyes are bight amber as they stare imploringly across the tiny baby table and Johnny feels like he’s drowning. 

“I didn’t tell you this to make you feel guilty,” Daniel continues earnestly, eyes shining with sincerity. “So please, don’t blame yourself for this. This is—this my thing and it has nothing to do with you. I never once blamed you for this. This is on Kreese and Terry Silver and Mike Barnes, okay? They’re the ones to blame for this, not you.”

Johnny knows this, but yet, he can’t help but feel like it’s his fault. The only reason Daniel got thrown in Kreese’s path was because he couldn't let Ali go. He couldn’t see past his own anger and resentment and just left them both alone. None of this would’ve happened if he’d just turned the other cheek and _let it go._

(Sometimes, usually when he’s too drunk to police himself, he wonders what would’ve happened if he and Daniel met under different circumstances. If they could’ve been friends. If they could’ve been _more_ than friends. If he would’ve realized how toxic Kreese was sooner, rather than later. If he could’ve found a mentor in Mr. Miyagi. If that could’ve change the path his life had taken, if he’d just tried harder to be better)

(It seems like that’s what most of his life boiled down to: a whole lot of shoulda, coulda, wouldas).

“Why?” Johnny finds himself asking. When Daniel furrows his eyebrows in confusion, Johnny elaborates, “Why did you tell me? Why did you—“ he waves a vague hand, wishing he had the guts to ask what he really wants— _why did you trust me with this?—_ but, as par the course of most things in his life, he falls just a little bit short. “Why?” he settles on finally, searching Daniel’s eyes. 

Daniel, never one to shy away from anything, just lets him look, like he either doesn’t know or if he does, is uncaring in what Johnny might find. 

_Alpha move,_ Johnny thinks to himself absently. 

“Because you needed to know,” Daniel answers, like it’s really that simple. And then, because he’s never been one for fighting fair (read: 1984 All-Valley victory by illegal crane kick), he adds, “because I know how much Kreese meant to you. That he was like a father to you and while I may not understand it, you and him,” he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement. “But I _understand_ , okay? I get it. And I _know_ you, John. Maybe—maybe not everything,” he allows, before he says, hesitant, “but I do know that you have a tendency to be blind when it comes to Kreese and despite my best efforts and past actions, I don’t actually want to see you get hurt.”

Johnny bristles. “I don’t need you protect me,” he snaps, detangling his hand from Daniel’s like it caught fire. 

Something flashes through Daniel’s eyes—it looks a lot like _hurt_ but Johnny won’t even allow himself to entertain the possibility, let alone try and actually confirm it—but it’s gone as quick as it came, making Johnny wonder if it was even really there to begin with. 

“Everyone needs to protection from something, Johnny,” Daniel says, irritatingly calm. His lips quirked up in a small, teasing smile. “Even you.”

Johnny can’t help but snort, looking away, out at the backyard that’s slightly visible through the weird, paper thin door, the shapes of the little trees blurry and vague through the muted tan material. 

Bitterly, he can’t help but think about how wrong Daniel is. He doesn’t need protecting, not when he’s the one usually doing the damage. That’s all he’s ever been good at, the _only_ thing he’s ever been good at. 

Daniel sighs wearily and he sounds tired when he says, “Look, I’m not expecting you to trust me or anything. All I’m asking is for you to just—be careful. I may not agree with everything that Cobra Kai stands for, but—” he pauses, like the admission is costing him a lot, like he didn’t just bare his soul to Johnny not even ten minutes ago. The thought makes Johnny smile, unbidden, to himself. “—I know you’re trying to change that. And I really hate to see all that get ruined.”

“By someone that isn’t you, you mean,” Johnny says, raising an eyebrow.

And when he faces Daniel again, the guy at least has the decency to look abashed, cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink. 

“Well, I did consider spending our second quarter marketing budget on a commercial for Miyagi-do, but,” Daniel shrugs, brown eyes twinkling in challenge. “I guess I’m gonna have to come up with something different now.”

“You could start charging for lessons,” Johnny quips and then, with a smirk he adds, “or start winning tournaments.”

Daniel clears his throat and in a pretty spot on impression of his sensei, says, “‘If karate used defend honor, defend life, karate mean something. If karate used defend plastic metal trophy, karate no mean nothing.’”

And even though Johnny won’t admit it, not even on pain of death, he can’t help but agree with the old man. Karate has always meant more to Johnny than just trophies on a shelf—it’s what grounds him and keeps him focused. It’s the only thing that ever made him feel like he belonged. It’s as much a part of him as his arms or legs and he never really realized how much he needed it until it had stumbled unexpectedly back into his life. 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Danielle,” Johnny says with a roll of his eyes.

His back spasms when he shifts on the little pillow thingy he’s been sitting on for the last hour, reminding him, rather painfully, that he’s too old to be sitting twisted up like a pretzel for this long. His ass is also numb and starting to do that weird needles and pins thing, which is an odd sensation to feel in that particular area of his body, so he makes to stand up, needing to stretch his legs out, maybe pop the crick in his back, but before he can get too far, a hand reaches out and grasps at his wrist, yanking him back down on to the pillow cushion thing.

“Whoa— _LaRusso_ , what the hell?” Johnny demands with a groan, fighting the urge to reach around him to rub the half of his ass that missed the pillow and landed on the rather painfully on the hardwood flooring. 

“Don’t go,” Daniel rushes out, eyes big and so brown, looking across the table at Johnny almost pleadingly. His hand is still wrapped around Johnny’s wrist, grip tight, like he’s afraid if he let’s go, Johnny’s going to disappear. 

“LaRusso. _Daniel,”_ Johnny murmurs, gently extracting his wrist from the deathlike grip and tangles their fingers together instead, giving Daniel’s hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. “I wasn’t going anywhere. My ass is just numb and all this tea you’ve been plying me with has to come out at some point. Besides, you drove us here, remember?” 

Daniel flushes. “Right. I guess I just thought—“ he pauses, chewing his lip and it’s then that Johnny realizes that, despite their easy banter, Daniel still looks a little rattled, a little frayed at the seams. “—I don’t really know what I thought,” he admits with a self depreciating laugh. 

It makes something uncomfortable twist in Johnny’s chest, but he let’s it go, for now. 

“Hey man, it’s fine,” Johnny assures. And, trying to lighten the mood, he adds, “You’re an old man now, it’s bound to happen.”

Daniel rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he mutters, but there’s a smile dancing on his lips that looks genuine and it eases the tight feeling in Johnny’s chest, replacing it with something else entirely. “Thank you,” he adds quietly. “For listening.”

“Anytime,” Johnny says and means it. And then, just to be an asshole, “Does this mean I’m going to get lucky?”

Daniel’s answering laugh is surprised and full and Johnny finds himself wondering just _where_ the flush creeping down the collar of his shirt ends. 

And it’s something he finds himself _still_ thinking about, even long after they’ve both gone to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for reading :)
> 
> Updates should be soon, but until then you can come yell at me on tumblr @victimofthemusic or discord storiesofmylife#7620 about LawRusso or just to say hi :)
> 
> Until next time my lovelies :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The newspaper is sitting on top of it all, yellowed with age and it feels brittle in Johnny’s hands when he fishes it out of the drawer. It’s crumpled, like whoever put it there couldn’t be bothered to fold it up properly and upon smoothing out, Johnny catches the headline that reads:
> 
> Mystery Dojo Strikes Again!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I'm sorry for the disappearing act, but for those of you that follow me on tumblr know a few weeks ago, I posted an update about a mental health update and some things going on in my personal life that resulted in me taking a break from writing and updating. I've had so much going on over the last month or so and then I'd sit down at my laptop and the urge to write just wasn't there. So I took some time to myself, regrouped and I'm doing a little bit better. Not a lot, but. It's any improvement is better than nothing. I also took the time to watch season 3 and I have SO many thoughts about it, many of them not great, but I'm hoping that we get to see a turnaround in season 4 with some of the characters. 
> 
> However, watching season 3 gave me the urge to start writing for this story again and I'm really excited about it. I've also been doing some drafting for my shades of healing verse which I hope to be getting back to soon. 
> 
> Until then, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter :)
> 
> I also realized that I mentioned a spotify playlist for this story in my last chapter but never posted the link *facepalm* but I'll post it here:
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2RuOVfl454D2tyLactLK2O?si=G4Nuh_xFS0Kd9RCD9qaE3g
> 
> I don't believe there's any warnings, but keep an open mind folks, we're inside Johnny's head here.

Johnny can’t sleep. 

He’s been laying in LaRus— _ Daniel’s _ guest room for hours, staring up at the ceiling, willing himself to fall asleep, but he  _ can’t,  _ no matter how hard he tries. Despite the exhaustion he can feel in every crevice of his bones, his mind is wide awake and alert, racing with thoughts and images that bleed together in a kaleidoscope of emotions that make him feel like he’s going to burst at the seams if they don’t  _ get out.  _

It doesn't help that it’s so  _ quiet,  _ this far out from the city. He feels like he can hear  _ everything _ —the bubbling from the weird little pond, the rustling of the trees, the _ tonka tonka  _ of the heavy wooden chimes as they clink and clunk together with every shift in the wind. It makes him feel on edge, body on high alert and it doesn't help the feeling of anxiousness that’s been swimming in his belly ever since he watched Daniel disappear into his own room and out of his sight for the first time all night. 

Johnny’s never liked silence. He’s always needed  _ something  _ going on in the background to drown out the thoughts that constantly bounced around, unbidden and unwanted, in his brain—Sid’s voice, nasty and cruel, telling him he’d never amount to anything, that he wasn’t worth the money he had to shell out to keep his mother happy. Kreese’s taunts, slick and poisonous, reminding him of how weak and pathetic he was, how he’d be nothing without him. Shannon, tired and fed up, berating him for fucking up,  _ again,  _ when it came to their son. Robby, disappointed and sad, resigned to the fact that Johnny and his endless mistakes were the best he was going to get in a dad.

But tonight, instead of the usual rotation of classics, Johnny’s mind keeps replaying Daniel’s confession on an endless loop and mixed with the image of those  _ damn _ wounded Bambi eyes, he wishes he would’ve asked for something stronger besides tea before going to bed. 

_ They wanted me to be afraid, they made me bleed— _

Johnny groans, rubbing at his eyes with heels of his palms hard enough to cause physical pain. 

_ They wanted me to be afraid, they made me bleed, they made me bleed, theymademebleedtheymademebleed— _

Johnny huffs and, after throwing the blankets off his body in frustration, he rolls out of bed and puts his head between his knees. He tries to take deep, calming breaths, like he’s seen LaRusso do a thousand times, but it doesn’t work, so he tries something else. Tries to focus on the soft bubbling of water from the pond. The low hum from the AC unit in the window. The rough throw rug underneath his feet. The body warm sheets underneath his thighs. 

It helps, a little bit, but he still feels too keyed up to sleep, so he flicks his gaze around the room, trying to find something to keep himself occupied. 

He hadn’t paid much attention when Daniel had brought him out here, his mind too preoccupied with everything else to really notice the little details. But now, sweeping his gaze across the small room, he can’t help but notice the little touches that scream teenage boy: the vintage Mets flag pinned up on the wall next to him, the outdated car magazines on the nightstand. The small bookshelf next to the bed is crammed with so many books it looks like it’s one book away from collapsing. There’s a cluster of faded pictures on the wall next to the overstuffed bookshelf—a dark seascape, Daniel with his mom at graduation, a smaller version of Daniel, with a wide, toothless grin slung across an older man’s shoulders who’s wearing a smile equally as wide and it doesn’t take a genius to figure that this must be Daniel’s father.

Johnny takes in his youthful expression, the glimmer of mischief in his eyes and wonders if this was before they found out he was sick. He can remember his own mother, young and beautiful one day and fragile and hollowed out the next. He couldn’t handle it at thirty-two, but Daniel was only eight. Maybe even younger, having to watch his dad waste away. 

The thought turns Johnny’s stomach, so he tries to focus on something else and finds himself distracted by another picture—this one is of Daniel, arm wrapped around a pretty Asian girl, both dressed up in some traditional Japanese Asian garb. The girl is facing the camera, her smile shy and demure, but Daniel—

Daniel’s looking at her. There’s a smile on his lips, the edges soft and almost tender, miles from the moony expression Johnny was forced to bear witness to all of senior year, whenever he had the misfortune of passing Ali and Daniel in the halls. 

He’s looking at her like she hung the moon and the stars, all at once. Like in a room full of people, she’s the only want he wants to look at. He’s looking at her like he’s—well, kind of like he’s in love and that makes Johnny feel.. _.odd  _ in a way that he’s going to blame on lack of sleep and the lack of alcohol.

Sneering at the picture, he turns to go back to bed when something catches his attention from the corner of his eye. Frowning, Johnny squints, trying to see in the low light. It’s a newspaper, sticking out of a half opened drawer of a little table in the corner of the room and, like a beacon, it beckons him closer. 

Feeling like a kid about to raid his first panty drawer, Johnny checks over his shoulder in paranoia, briefly considering the notion that this is a trap designed specifically to test his level of trustworthiness. But when Daniel fails to pop out of the shadows and shout  _ gotcha! _ Johnny figures that it’s safe enough to open the drawer and inspect it’s contents. It looks to be a junk drawer of some kind, just a bunch of random shit that Daniel couldn’t be bothered enough to throw out. 

The newspaper is sitting on top of it all, yellowed with age and it feels brittle in Johnny’s hands when he fishes it out of the drawer. It’s crumpled, like whoever put it there couldn’t be bothered to fold it up properly and upon smoothing out, Johnny catches the headline that reads:

_ Mystery Dojo Strikes Again! _

Underneath the headline is a picture of a smiling Daniel, one arm wrapped around his equally elated Sensei while the other is gripping a familiar first place trophy.

A glance up to the corner of the paper shows the date:  _ December 20th, 1985,  _ confirming what Johnny already knew and with a sinking feeling, he scans the article in the weak light offered by the porch lights spilling in through the paper thin doors.

_ In what will in no doubt go down as the most brutal and grueling final match in the history of the Under 18 All Valley Tournament, returning champion, Daniel LaRusso, defended his title against Cobra Kai’s wild card, Mike Barnes. Known as the bad boy of Karate, Mike Barnes put the returning champ through his paces, establishing control early on in the match by using a questionable and unorthodox style of karate that kept the score tied at an even 0-0 and Larusso on his toes, resulting in a sudden death round, where LaRusso scored the winning match point— _

Johnny glances back up at the picture, his eyes flickering over the grainy black and white picture of a seventeen year old Daniel _ \-- _ the angles of his face, just beginning to lose some of their softness, baby fat carving into a sharp jawline, emphasizing the jut of that stubborn chin. But there’s a weariness in his eyes, a bone deep fatigue of a kid who’s lived and seen too much already.

_ “It didn’t feel like winning, not when I barely made it out of that match alive.” _

With shaking hands, Johnny let’s the newspaper article flutter to the floor and scrambles to find his phone in the mess of tangled sheets. 

He vaguely remembers Miguel showing him how to use the Metube or Wetube site in order to watch funny videos, but that was on his laptop, not his phone. It takes him a few tries and a few misfires—he makes a mental note to remember RedTube when cruising the bars for a babe for the night doesn’t work—but he eventually finds the YouTube on his third search attempt on The Google. 

Despite carefully trying to type 1985 All Valley Tournament into the search bar, it comes out as  _ 1985 aL Vallry torunabmebt, _ but thankfully, The YouTube offers suggestions and he clicks on the right one and waits anxiously for the results to load, checking over his shoulder once again like a 12 year old digging through a porn stash. 

When it finally loads, Johnny clicks on the first video and damn near drops his phone when an ad for Viagra plays at full volume. He scrambles for it, slamming his thumb repeatedly into the volume button on the side of his phone until the talks of the magic blue pill are a low, tinny murmur. 

Johnny taps impatiently at the little suggestion to skip the ad and waits as the video loads. 

The quality isn’t great, but it’s enough for Johnny to make out the look of absolute terror on Daniel’s face as he watches his opponent jump around like a wild animal getting ready to pounce, a younger Kreese with his arms folded across his chest, smirk firmly place as he stands next to the douchiest looking guy Johnny’s ever seen in his life—which is saying something, he used to rub elbows with people at a country club, for Christ sakes.

The match is gruesome and downright painful to watch. This Mike Barnes is vicious, attacking Daniel in a flurry of fists and kicks executed with brute strength and cruelty. 

He’s absolutely  _ ruthless  _ and by the end of the first round, Daniel’s already bruised, bleeding and looking woefully out of his depth as he stumbles back to his side of the mat. He looks so painfully young, wide eyed and scared and it twists Johnny stomach, thinking of Robby or Miguel, going up against someone like this and it only worsens, when, as the rounds progress, he starts to see the pattern—gain a point, lose a point, over and over, in order to keep the match tied. 

_ They wanted me to bleed, they wanted me to suffer. _

Bile rises like acid in Johnny’s throat and it’s all he can do to keep it down as he watches in horror as Daniel takes hit after hit and does nothing to counter.

_ They wanted me to be all mixed up inside _

Kreese and Silver are shouting and their self satisfied grins only get wider with every hit that lands, every drop of blood that spills and it’s with a dawning horror that Johnny realizes that this wasn’t a rematch. This was a _ death  _ match, designed with only one thing in mind:  _ making the enemy suffer.  _

Disgust rises with the bile and Johnny can’t watch anymore, he doesn’t want to see the terrified look in Daniel’s eyes, the cold and down right murderous look in Barnes’s, the gleeful, manic smiles on Kreese and Silver’s faces. 

He turns the video off and throws his phone back on the bed and the sudden silence is unnerving. He feels sick. And angry.  _ So angry. _ At Kreese, Silver, Barnes.  _ Himself.  _ For forcing Daniel down this path. For not leaving the kid alone. For not getting over Ali. For being such a sorry excuse for a human being. Then.  _ Now.  _

Johnny has a lot of what if’s in life—what if he didn’t get drunk and miss Ali’s birthday, what if his mom didn’t marry Sid, what if he had gotten his shit together sooner, what if he would’ve stuck around after Robby was born and more recently, after his day spent talking about REO Speedwagon and learning little tidbits about Daniel, he finds himself wondering what would’ve happened had he given LaRusso a chance, way back then. 

Usually, they’re just passing thoughts but right now, with the image of Daniel’s beaten and bloodied face, he’s never wished more fiercely that they would’ve come true. That he could’ve walked a different path in life that would’ve kept Daniel away from Kreese and Silver. That he could’ve even been friends with Daniel. 

_ Or more, _ his traitorous brain whispers but before can spend too much time wondering just where the fuck  _ that  _ particular thought came from, a blood chilling scream pierces through the night air, startling Johnny so badly his knees buckle and he has to throw a hand out to catch himself on the nearest wall before he face plants onto the smoothly sanded floors. 

“What—“

_ The fuck  _ is drowned out by another blood curdling scream that tapers off into a painful whimper, like a wounded animals and it sounds close, like it’s—almost like it’s—

Another whimper, followed by a sharp gasp and Johnny curses so colorfully that it would make even Bobby blush and want to douse him with holy water. 

Johnny scrambles to his feet, yanking the weird little paper door clean off its track in his haste to open it but he spares it no mind, dashing into the house at full speed, his mind racing in tandem with his feet on the wood of the deck—g _ et to Daniel _ , it chants like a mantra, g _ et to Daniel, get to Danieldanieldanieldaniel— _

Another scream echoes through the house just as Johnny rounds the corner to Daniel’s room, fists coiled and ready to rip apart whoever’s responsible for causing those sounds to come out of Daniel’s mouth.

But there’s no there and it takes Johnny’s frazzled brain a minute to realize that Daniel—twisting and thrashing in the tangled sheets—is having a nightmare. 

Offering comfort to someone in distress is not one of Johnny’s strong suits and not for the first time tonight, he feels way out of his depth and in over his head. But then Daniel makes that wounded noise again and something inside Johnny breaks at the sound and he can’t--he  _ can’t _ just stand here and listen to him suffer, not if he can do something,  _ anything _ , to help. 

He wracks his brain, but the only thing he remembers is hearing something, years ago, about not waking someone when they’re in the middle of a nightmare. Or was that a night terror? Is there a difference? He isn't sure, but he knows he has to do  _ something _ , because the longer he stands there like an idiot with a thumb up his ass, the worse Daniel’s thrashing gets and the sounds leaving his parted lips sound like someone’s down right  _ torturing  _ him and Johnny thinks, _ fuck it, it’s not like this can get any worse, right? _

Squaring his shoulders, he walks over to the bed and gently places a hand on Daniel’s chest. He’s warm, t-shirt damp with cooling sweat and Johnny can feel the way his lungs rattle with every gasp, the rabbiting  _ thump thump thump _ of his heart against his rib cage and he suddenly wishes he paid more attention in that first aid class in high school, because dealing with a nightmare is one thing, he has no fucking clue what to do if Daniel has a heart attack or a stroke. 

“I hope you take your baby aspirin, LaRusso or we’re both fucked,” Johnny mutters before he gently begins to shake him. “Hey, Daniel, c’mon man, wake---”

The  _ up  _ dies on his lips when Daniel’s hand clamps around his wrist in a grip tight enough to bruise and Johnny has all of two seconds to think  _ oh shit  _ before pain bursts like fireworks behind his eyes and he goes flying backwards, scrambling for purchase on the nightstand, but he aims too wide and only succeeds in knocking a bunch of shit over as he falls on his ass, tailbone stinging when it meets the hard wooden floors. 

_ That’s gonna leave a mark,  _ Johnny thinks, groaning. 

The commotion seems to have woken Daniel, who springs up from the bed and somehow manages to get a light on, even though Johnny’s pretty sure the lamp was the first thing, other than his ass, to hit the floor. 

Daniel stands over him, disoriented and irate, fists half raised, like he’s not sure what he should do first: start swinging or yelling. 

“Johnny, what the _ hell _ are you doing?” He demands, lowering his clenched fists to his skinny hips in a way that Johnny assumes is supposed to come off as imposing, but it only makes him resemble the pissed off soccer moms that corner Johnny after class because their kid got a nose bleed.

And for the first time in his life, Johnny’s grateful Daniel chose yelling, because the room is kind of spinning and there’s this pressure behind his sinus that’s making it hard to think, let alone defend himself. 

_ I’m getting too old for this,  _ he thinks with another groan.

“Redecorating,” Johnny snaps, but his voice sounds clogged, like he’s got a serious head cold and when he raises his hand to his nose, it comes away bloody. “Damn it, LaRusso, why do you always have to go for the nose?!”

A few tentative touches tells him that it’s not broken, thank _ God _ , but it’s definitely going to swell and hurt like a bitch for the next few days. 

Above him, Daniel curses. “Jesus, Johnny, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, kneeling down on the floor next to him, cupping his aching jaw in his warm palm. He inspects the damage with wide, guilty eyes and Johnny can’t even find it himself to be annoyed, let alone angry. Not when he can still feel the tremors in Daniel’s hand as he tilts his jaw this way and that, the traces of fear that lurk like shadows behind the worry and concern in those big, dark eyes. Johnny’s gaze lands on the paper thin scars splintered across Daniel’s knuckles and they glow almost lumincest in the soft light of the lamp Johnny still could’ve sworn he knocked over and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what Daniel had been dreaming about. 

He opens his mouth to ask, but Daniel beats him to it. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

He helps Johnny up off the floor and the groan he lets out makes Daniel look even more remorseful, but Johnny just waves him off and Daniel lets it go, leading him into the bathroom. 

He gestures for Johnny to sit on the sink and he does, gingerly, shivering when the cool granite touches the back of his thighs, his sore ass and it suddenly occurs to him, as Daniel rummages through the cabinet below, that he’s not wearing pants. He’d stripped out of his jeans when he had gone to bed and in his haste to get to Daniel, he hadn’t bothered to put them back on. So now he sits, nose gushing blood like the Red Sea, in nothing but a pair of boxers and a thin t-shirt.

And Johnny only becomes more aware of that little detail when Daniel slots himself between his thighs and cups his jaw in one hand, dabbing at his nose with a wet washcloth with the other; touch feather light and tender in a way that Johnny hasn’t felt in a long time, if ever. 

“I’m sorry,” Daniel says after a moment, eyes flicking up to his before they fall back to his nose. “It’s been a long time since I--” He falters, swallows. “Well, usually I can wake myself up so this--” He taps his long fingers against Johnny’s jaw. “--doesn’t happen.”

“Guess I’m just lucky,” Johnny mutters and Daniel presses a little too hard on his injured nose in response. “Geez, watch it!”

“Sorry,” Daniel says, but his lips twitch and he doesn’t sound very sorry at all.

Johnny scoffs and says, “Yeah, I’m sure you are.” 

Daniel doesn’t respond, but his lips quirk into a little grin and it makes Johnny’s chest feel weird. 

They fall into silence and it’s only when Daniel pulls away to rewet the wash cloth that Johnny gets the courage to ask the question that’s been burning on the tip of his tongue since he barged, half cocked and ready to go, into Daniel’s room at the first sounds of his distress. 

“What are they about? Your nightmares, I mean,” He clarifies when Daniel’s eyes glance up to his in askance. 

Daniel looks away, down at the blood that runs pink underneath the steady flow of water from the faucet. It stains the white porcelain bowl of the sink a muted, rust red and Johnny knows from experience that it will stay that way if it doesn’t get doused in a healthy dose of bleach.

“They’re not nightmares,” Daniel says finally, decisive. 

Denial is Johnny’s chosen method of problem solving, but it doesn’t really jive with the jumped up, in-your-face,  _ you-may-beat-me-but-you’re-gonna-see-me _ , Jersey spitfire Daniel LaRusso that’s lived, rent free, in Johnny’s mind for the last thirty-four years. 

“Yeah, okay,” Johnny says with a disbelieving roll of his eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, LaRusso, but--”

“They’re not nightmares,” Daniel repeats, wringing the washcloth out and pressing it back to Johnny’s nose, even though he’s pretty sure it stopped bleeding a while ago. “They’re memories.”

“Memories,” Johnny echoes, voice soft, heart twisting, stomach roiling because he knows. God, does he  _ know _ , how memories can be worse than anything the unconscious mind can conjure up. 

Daniel shakes his head, huffing an incredulous laugh. “I know it sounds stupid--being afraid of my own memories--but there’s something about reliving it. It’s almost like--”

“--it’s happening for the first time,” Johnny finishes, voice barely above a whisper and Daniel eyes snap to his, searching. Johnny swallows and offers him a grim smile. “It doesn’t matter that you know how it ends, you’re still just as scared, just as terrified as the first time you went through it.”

“Yeah,” Daniel breathes, eyebrows furrowed. “How did you-- _ oh, John, _ ” he murmurs, lips twisting into a sympathetic frown.

Johnny glances away, but Daniel’s grip is firm on his jaw, holding him in place. They stare silently at each other for a moment and it takes every ounce of willpower Johnny has not to squirm underneath the weight of Daniel’s liquid dark eyes. 

“I dream about that night sometimes,” Daniel whispers in the space between them, like it’s a secret. “I dream that Mr. Miyagi didn’t get there in time, that Kreese didn’t let go,” Daniel’s hand slips to the hollow of his throat, ghosting his fingers over the phantom bruises that have long since faded. “I actually thought he was going to kill you.”

“Too bad for you he didn’t, huh?” Johnny snarks, like the worst sort of reflex, but instead of getting the rise he was hoping for, Daniel just looks  _ devastated. _

“How can you say that?” He breathes, brown eyes wide and hurt. “ _ Jesus Christ _ , Johnny, I may have hated you at one point, but I  _ never _ \--not even in my worst moments--wanted you to die. _ God _ .” He takes a step back, tossing the washcloth into the sink and runs a shaky hand through his sleep mussed hair. “Is that really what you thought, all these years? That I was upset that Kreese didn’t follow through and actually kill you?”

_ No _ , Johnny thinks and he opens his mouth to say so, because he can remember Daniel’s eyes--wide and terrified--burning into his, all the way across the parking lot as Kreese wrapped his arm around his throat, but the words get stuck and Daniel looks like he’s in physical pain.

“Johnny, you were an asshole and you did some fucked up things, but you didn’t deserve that,” Daniel says in a tone that brooks no argument. “ _ Any _ of it. He hurt you--he wanted to kill you, all because of a second place trophy and I actually thought he was going to do it. I was terrified that he was going to. And like I said, not even when I was at my lowest, did I ever want something like that to happen to you. As far as I was concerned, our problems ended after the tournament, after you passed me the trophy. I wanted--” He pauses, huffing a soft laugh that’s more sad than amused. “I wanted to check on you that night, after--everything that happened. Make sure you were okay.”

“Why didn’t you?” Johnny asks, voice hoarse. 

“I was afraid of making it worse,” Daniel admits, ashamed. “And I wasn’t sure if you would’ve wanted me to.”

Johnny thinks of that night and the many nights after that. How angry he was. How lost and lonely he felt, after he threw his belt down at Kreese’s feet. The belt that he worked so hard for, damn near killing himself to earn. How it meant nothing after hearing the snap of his trophy and the feeling of an arm around his throat. 

The truth is, Johnny doesn’t know how he would’ve reacted if Daniel had stayed that night and a part of him wonders what would’ve happened if he had. If it would’ve made the months after that better or worse. If they could’ve been friends or something more. If they’d still be here, in this moment, if Daniel would’ve made a different choice. If  _ both _ of them would’ve made a different choice. 

All the what if’s are making his head spin and his chest ache in a way that he wishes he could blame on Daniel’s sucker punch. 

“I don’t know what I would’ve done,” Johnny admits truthfully. “I was...pretty messed up that night.” _ And many nights after _ , he thinks, but doesn’t say. 

“I regret not trying harder.” Daniel confesses, eyes painfully honest and sincere. 

“Me, too.” Johnny says softly. 

A small smile curls at Daniel’s lips. “Think of all the trouble that would’ve saved us, huh?” 

“I don’t know, it sounds like trouble seems to follow us wherever we go,” Johnny says with a laugh.

Daniel hums. “Maybe that’s true,” he allows before he adds, tone thoughtful, “but I like to think that whatever it was, we would’ve solved it together.”

And the thing is, it’s not that hard to picture—the two of them, working together, being there for each other. He wonders how much different his life would’ve turned out, if he had Daniel in his corner, pushing him, in that demanding, stubborn way of his, to be better. 

The thought makes his throat squeeze and his heart ache with longing and he takes a moment to mourn the loss of what  _ could’ve  _ been before he shakes it off and jokes, “Like Tango and Cash.” 

Daniel’s laughter is warm and it brushes across Johnny’s cheek like a caress. “Tango and Cash were narcotic detectives,” Daniel points out, but his eyes are gentle and fond and it makes Johnny feel breathless in a way that he’s going to blame on his bruised nose. 

Johnny shrugs, dismissive. “Who cares, man, they were  _ badass. _ ”

“I think we’re more like Rocky and Apollo,” Daniel says thoughtfully. “Two rival fighters who became friends in the end.”

“Are we?” Johnny asks suddnely and he hates himself for how hopeful he sounds. “Friends, I mean.”

Daniel hums, head tilted in mock consideration. “I guess,” he says slowly, fully lips pulling into a sly smile that Johnny definitely does  _ not _ trust. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?” Johnny asks, suddenly weary. 

Knowing Daniel, it could be anything from wanting him to write an eighteen page apology letter, single spaced and cited events included, to something equally as stupid like wanting to teach him that touchy feely,  _ kumbyah  _ bullshit as some weird method of torture but what he gets is—

“I get to be Rocky.”

Relief crashes over him like a wave and he can’t help the amused snort of laugher if he tries. “In your dreams, LaRusso.”

Daniel quirks an eyebrow. “Fine, then I get to be Tango.”

“No way, man! You can’t pick  _ both _ Stallone roles—“ 

“—says  _ who _ ?”

“Uh,  _ me _ ? C’mon, man, you can have one or the other—“

“Fine, then I choose Rocky.”

“Fine, then I get to be Tango.”

“You literally look _ nothing _ like Stallone—“

“—well, I don’t look a damn thing like Apollo, either, but I don’t hear you complaining about that. Hey, does that make you racist?”

“—what the hell? How does that make me racist?” Daniel demands, indignant. 

“You know, that thing where you make a white guy play the role of a minority? Miguel taught it to me—“

“—you mean whitewashing?”

Johnny snaps his fingers. “Yeah! That’s it. You’re whitewashing Apollo!” Johnny crows triumphantly.

“He’s a fictional character, John, you can’t  _ whitewash  _ a fictional character—“

“—hey man, whatever helps you sleep at night—“ Johnny inserts with a shrug.

“—besides,” Daniel continues, completely ignoring him. “I was just using them as an example of what our friendship is like, you’re the one that turned into a race thing.”

Johnny opens his mouth to retort, but he suddenly realizes how close they are--close enough that he can smell the remains of soap on Daniel’s skin, the warmth of his body between his thighs. He has freckles this close up, a few shades darker than his natural skin tone and they dust across the bridge of his long, angular nose like a little sun kissed mosaic.

His gaze flickers, unbidden, to Daniel’s lips—plush and pink, bottom lip fuller than the top—before they meet Daniel’s eyes, who’s gaze burns like a brand into his.

“Hey, LaRusso?” Johnny whispers, mouth suddenly dry.

“Yeah?” Daniel whispers back, his eyes never leaving Johnny’s lips.

“I don’t think this is something friends do,” Johnny points out, swallowing heavily.

“No,” Daniel agrees softly. He pauses, licks his lips and Johnny can’t help but track the movement. “But then again,” Daniel adds, voice low. “I wouldn’t know. I never had that many friends.”

And then he leans up and kisses Johnny and Johnny,  _ God help him _ , meets Daniel halfway. 

It’s just a gentle, cautious brush of lips, but then Daniel cups his jaw in his warm palm and Johnny can’t help but allow himself to sink into it, flicking his tongue across that plush bottom lip, just to get a taste, but Daniel opens up for him, like a flower blooming towards the first few rays of sun after it rains. 

He tastes like toothpaste and tea and his lips are warm, so warm, and Johnny feels something inside of him crack split underneath the heat of this man that he aches to touch and feel  _ everywhere _ . 

“John,” Daniel breathes when they part, voice tender, soft and it sends a shiver down Johnny’s spine.

“You’re the only person who calls me that, you know,” Johnny murmurs, brushing a thumb over the curve of Daniel’s cheek. His skin is smooth and soft and he can feel the heat of his flush under the tips of his fingers.

“Oh,” Daniel falters. “Do you—do you want me to stop?” He asks, biting his lip.

The sight makes something flicker like a flame, low in Johnny’s belly, and he finds himself wanting to bite that kiss swollen lip, too.

Johnny shakes his head, nuzzling his nose against Daniel’s and it’s worth the throbbing ache the motion leaves behind when he sees the way it makes Daniel’s nose crinkle. “No,” he admits. “It’s just different, I guess. A _ good  _ different,” he adds, when Daniel still looks hesitant. “I like the way you say it.”

It’s worth the hit his pride takes at admitting something so painfully girly when he sees the way Daniel positively glows at the new information. “Good,” he whispers. And then, almost shyly, “I like it when you call me Daniel.”

“I don’t know,” Johnny teases, voice low, trailing his fingers down the front of Daniel’s sleep t-shirt. “I think I like LaRusso better.”

Daniel rolls his eyes. “Johnny,” he chides, but Johnny can see the way his lips twitch, knows that he’s fighting a smile. 

“Fine,” he says, sighing in an over dramatic, put upon way, just to be a pain in the ass. “Daniel it is. But only on special occasions.”

Daniel huffs a laugh and Johnny chases it with his lips, because apparently that’s something he can do now and it’s only confirmed when Daniel kisses him back, slowly, languid, like they have all the time in the world. 

“I’m gonna shower,” Daniel says, when they pull apart. “Will you—will you wait for me?” He asks, biting his lip, like he’s bracing for Johnny to say no and he looks so much like that scared seventeen year old in the video, wide eyed and vulnerable, like a trapped animal that wanted to run but knew there was nowhere to hide.

It makes Johnny’s chest ache, a sudden rush of protectiveness washing over him so fiercely that it threatens to consume him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Johnny promises and the bright smile he gets in return only strengthens his resolve to keep it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked it :)
> 
> This chapter was strangely a lot of fun to write and I hope you guys enjoyed it and I hope no one was upset/offended by the whitewashing of Apollo comment, it just seemed in line with something Johnny and Daniel would argue about lol.
> 
> I have a loose idea for the next one, so it should hopefully be posted soon. 
> 
> Let me know what you think :)
> 
> You can find me on:
> 
> tumblr: @victimofthemusic  
> twitter:@storiesofmylif9  
> discord: storiesofmylife#7620
> 
> Until next time :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)
> 
> I have this mostly drafted out, so updates should be somewhat quick, but I also make no promises
> 
> Until next time :)


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